You carefully shape the words of the Primal Tongue—the ancient language of the Garou, which you learned almost instinctively after your First Change—as you cannot speak human language in your wolf forms.
"Is that what you think?" Clay says, looking up from his filthy meal. "That we…owe you something, pup? You owed us a dead Bane, and you failed. Scarper did what you could not."
To emphasize his packmate's words, Scarper gestures with his knife across his hairy throat.
You sputter. Where to begin? The "Bane" was the horse Clay is feeding on right now, not the man. The man was already dead. You ripped his throat out before Scarper drew that little line across his neck. You finished them both without help, even though the others were supposed to back you up, were supposed to…
What would be the point of arguing? You look from Clay's blood-smeared face to Scarper's gleeful smirk to Black Tarn's hard, mad glare, and know that you will find neither mercy nor fairness here. This pack is faithless and treacherous, consumed by old grudges. The Litany is just a weapon to them. You will win no arguments here, nor find any Honor among these cruel old wolves.
"Get back to the van," Scarper tells you. "Get yourself cleaned up. You look like shit. We're going to have to clean up your mess." He flings the keys at you, expecting you to miss them in the darkness, but you catch them in your teeth. He snarls, but Clay just continues to gorge himself on the horse-thing.
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